


Beer Mats and Dance Tours

by jesterjessie



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, F/F, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesterjessie/pseuds/jesterjessie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life in New York isn't exactly what Santana expected it to be. 'Her thoughts often strayed to McKinley when she worked music nights, back to when she'd actually meant something, been someone other than one of the thousands of young hopefuls whose dreams had been crushed beneath the skyscrapers.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. So, I posted this on FF about a year ago, but I've just started going back over my old stories and editing them in the hopes that I'll get the inspiration to start writing new material again. In the meantime, enjoy.
> 
> Any and all comments, positive or otherwise, are more than welcome, you fabulous people.

_"...Why don't you come on over, Valeri-i-i-ie?"_

Santana grinned as the crowd erupted into applause, hollering and calling for an encore. Sure, it was only a small bar, one of many that littered New York, yet its weekly live-music nights drew an impressive audience, locals and tourists alike cramming in for a chance to see the next big thing before their career really kicked off.

"Thank you, thank you, you've been amazing tonight..." She winced as the guitarist tripped over the microphone lead, a piercing sound filling the bar as it was tugged from its socket. Blushing underneath the playful glares being sent his way, the guitarist hurriedly plugged it back in, no desire to take the attention away from the singer's big moment. "I'm afraid we can't do any more songs, that's our time up for this week, but hopefully we'll be ba-.."

"Two beers and a rum and coke, no ice." Santana jumped, the gruff voice dragging her attention from the singer still busy thanking the crowd to the customer leaning on the bar. Forcing a smile onto her face, she fixed his drinks as quickly as possible and gratefully accepted the change as a tip. Though she knew it had been more in recognition of the lower cut she had worn tonight than her service, a tip was a tip and Santana couldn’t afford to begin refusing tips on moral grounds.

The brunette had no time to watch the band traipse off the stage as people crowded the bar, each trying to get a drink before the next act appeared. Order after order was thrown at her as customers hung over the counter, voices raised in an attempt to seize her attention and thus get served ahead of anyone else. Such a tactic never worked, as Santana despised the more obnoxious customers and would often neglect serving them for as long as she possibly could, yet the vindictive side of her chose to swallow the warning that the stick residue of spilt drinks on the bar would most likely stain their clothes. She hated the crowd on live music nights ('And you hate the fact that you're behind the bar instead of on the stage' whispered the bitter voice of a treacherous mind, ignoring her attempts at repressing such thoughts), the regular, friendly clientele with whom she could share idle conversation as she filled their orders replaced by tourists and arrogant music fans with little care for those serving their drinks.

Santana shot a glare along the bar at the other girl on her shift in between mixing what felt like her thousandth drink of the night and fetching two beers for a particularly irritating customer in a rather disgusting shirt. Hummel probably would have bleached his eyes after seeing it. Alyssa, the owner's daughter, had made it clear from their very first shift together that she couldn't stand the 'snarky bitch from Ohio' and she seemed to have made it her life's work to do as little as possible whenever the two were working together. Knowing that her family connection would prevent her from ever being fired, the redhead whiled away her shifts flirting with her boyfriend, an ever present fixture in the bar whose name Santana could never bother to remember. Honestly, she didn't understand why Alyssa didn't just ask her father to never put them onto the same shift, though suspected it was because she knew Santana would never dare report her as long as she continued to do the bare minimum. Both of them knew that the Latina needed the job more than she wanted to complain and, though she sometimes felt like a coward, Santana couldn’t bring herself to risk it.

++++++++++

Santana sighed wearily as the next act began to play, the crowd turning away from the bar to watch some electro band she really couldn't care less about, and grabbed a bottle of water from one of the fridges. Pausing only to mutter quickly to Alyssa that she was taking a break, she stalked out through the back of the bar to the stock room, tapping her back pocket to make sure her pack of cigarettes hadn't fallen out.

She'd had to downgrade from cigars. Too expensive.

Wrenching open the door that led out onto an alley, Santana leant in the doorway to watch the rain drizzling miserably outside and lit a cigarette with practised hands before frowning at the near emptiness of the packet. She really ought to give up the habit, her nicotine addiction eating into what little money she had left after paying her share of the rent and bills each month, yet she'd become so dependent on it recently to relieve her stress that she couldn't bear the idea of quitting.

Taking a long drag of her cigarette then exhaling slowly, tired eyes tracking the smoke as it drifted away through the shadowy alley, Santana started as her phone vibrated with a new message. Sighing, she slipped it from her pocket, thumb sliding to unlock the phone as she wondered who would be texting her so late. Part of her expected it to be Alyssa bitching at her to get back inside, not trusting the other girl to allow her even five minutes of peace. 

_'Te echo de menos y te quiero. B x'_

Warmth flooded through Santana as she read and re-read Brittany's message, the corners of her mouth pulling up into a small smile at the words. She had never understood the blonde's ability to do that, to distract Santana from all the crap in her life with only a few words or a soft smile, yet she always found herself touched by Brittany’s comfort. Her girlfriend always seemed to sense when she was feeling particularly low, whether the two were tangled together in bed while 'star-gazing' (Brittany hated not being able to see the stars through the city lights, so had plastered their bedroom ceiling with glow-in-the-dark plastic replicas) or separated by thousands of miles.

She was glad to hear that Brittany missed her, to think that maybe the blonde felt as unbalanced by their separation, but it didn't change the fact that the she was halfway round the world. Santana’s smile dropped, the thoughts that had been plaguing her throughout her entire shift returning, and she slipped her phone back into her pocket while taking another long drag of her cigarette. She hated herself for it, but in that moment the Latina couldn’t stifle the burning envy she felt over Brittany’s fortune, whisking her around the world to as a backing dancer on tour with the latest generic pop sensation. Serving beers was never the career path on which she'd expected to end up.

Everything had fallen into place for Brittany, from the very moment the two of them had moved to New York. Santana had dropped out of Louisville after a year (with her parents' blessing - they expected it to happen, her father had told her, and were just glad she'd given college a try) to move to the city with Brittany around a month after the blonde's graduation. They'd thrown themselves into trying to 'build their dream', Brittany trekking back and forth across the city for dance auditions while Santana contacted every bar she could find that held a live music or open mic night in the hope of performing. But, while Santana received very few positive responses, forcing her to pick up several jobs to pay her half of the rent (the money her mother had given her only stretching so far), the blonde had found that every choreographer, director or musician she danced for was desperate to get her onto their projects. Quite the buzz had grown around Brittany. Santana had accompanied her to enough parties to learn that those in the know considered her a rising star in the industry and, in the words of one particularly important choreographer (tongue loosened by the unlimited champagne), 'the best thing I've seen in fucking forever'.

Only Brittany's complete innocence kept her jealousy in check. The blonde had never expected achieving her dream to happen so smoothly and she was often bewildered by her success. She'd even confessed, murmuring quietly in the Latina's ear as they sat, curled together, in a bath ready for the minute Santana trudged through the door after a closing shift (she'd nearly cried at the gesture), that she was sure it would be the other way round, that Santana's career would take off while she struggled to get anything from her auditions. "It'll happen soon," Brittany had whispered softly as the brunette relaxed in her arms. "Soon someone will see just how awesome you are and give you your chance."  
Yet here she was, four years after moving to New York: waitress and shop assistant by day, bartender by night.

'Coach Sylvester would be so fucking proud,' she scoffed internally, shaking off the ash collecting at the end of her cigarette before taking another drag. Her thoughts often strayed to McKinley when she worked music nights, back to when she'd actually meant something, been someone other than one of the thousands of young hopefuls whose dreams had been crushed beneath the skyscrapers. She could only imagine how scathing some of her former classmates would be if they saw what she'd been reduced to, though she wasn't sure if it would be better or worse than the traces of sympathy, and even pity, she sometimes caught in the faces of the former Glee club members whenever they saw each other. Brittany still insisted they were all a family, and that families kept in touch, so they made sure to see all of the group throughout the year, some more regularly than others. She hated their annual Skype call with Rory - turns out the Irish boy was even harder to understand through a computer, and she often gave up after the sixth time his screen went blank, muttering darkly about 'fucking technologically incompetent leprechauns'.

She was Santana fucking Lopez, she thought bitterly as she crushed her cigarette against the damp brick of the doorway. She neither wanted nor needed their sympathy. So she was working crappy jobs instead of singing? Not everybody had as easy a route to their dream career as Brittany, but at least she still had her girlfriend, her health and a nice enough apartment. With Brittany’s earnings, they could have lived somewhere much grander, but they had both known that Santana would have come to resent her inability to pay her fair share and had decided to limit their search only to places where Santana could afford to contribute at least a third of the rent.  
If she just kept her thoughts fixed on what she was lucky enough to have, rather than dwelling on what she thought she would have achieved by now, the Latina could at least make it to the safety of her own bed before breaking down.

"Santana! Get back in here, there's customers that want serving!" screeched Alyssa, her nasal voice shattering the silence coating Santana. Sighing, she slammed the alley door shut harder than was necessary, taking her anger out on cold metal even though she ached to punish her co-worker for her rudeness. God forbid Alyssa put herself out even remotely... She stopped just before she exited the stock room, taking a moment to collect herself as she plastered another fake grin across her face before walking back out into the onslaught of orders that greeted her.

++++++++++

Stifling a yawn with the post clenched tightly in her hand, Santana unlocked the door to her apartment and shoved it open irritably, wincing as the sound of the wood connecting with the hall wall reverberated around her already aching head. Wearily stepping inside, she blindly kicked the door closed behind her before making her way through the small open-plan apartment, dropping items as she went. The bills were thrown onto the dining table, pushed against the wall after one too many mid-dance collisions, one too many plates smashed during exuberant choreography. They could wait until tomorrow. No doubt they would put her in an excellent frame of mind to deal with fussy diners and customers who were adamant that no, that shirt really had been ripped when they bought it.

Her stomach grumbled, abnormally loud against the silence of the apartment. It had taken a few weeks to get used to the quietness after Brittany left, but after four months she had somewhat adjusted to it though. If Santana was honest with herself, not that she would ever let her girlfriend know, she had subconsciously taken to spending as little time as possible in the apartment. The glaring absence shining throughout the apartment was heavy, consuming Santana’s thoughts until she wept brokenly for her girlfriend, and moments spent shivering on a park bench were a welcome reprieve from such torture. Absently kicking her shoes off, feet screaming with exhaustion after yet another long day, Santana realised she hadn’t grabbed anything to eat since...actually, she couldn't remember eating anything all day. Her alarm had decided to run out of battery during the night and it had thrown her whole day out of joint. She'd had to get changed in the stock room of the diner after sprinting to get to her to shift on time; still, it had been worth it just to see the irritating high-schooler who worked the till faint at the sight of her in a bra, having unwittingly stumbled upon her halfway through changing.

She smirked at the memory. The ego boost had been nice.

The egg splattered over her top later that afternoon in the course of some brat’s tantrum over his mother ordering him the wrong meal, however...not so much.

Their answering machine flashed obnoxiously from the counter as she walked into the kitchen area, meaning to fix herself a small snack before bed. Five new messages, read the small screen. Maybe Brittany had rung while she'd been at work. More than anything, Santana missed talking to her girlfriend, from the silly commentary they provided to the movies they watched on the rare Sundays they both had free to the whispers of the future that floated through the air between them as they lay wrapped around one another beneath the sheets.

_"Yo, lezbro! It's Puck...listen, I'm gonna be in town in two weeks, can I crash at-... message deleted."_

_"Hola, mija. Your father and I were just wondering if you and Brittany are planning to vi- message deleted."_

_"Hey, San, it's Quinn. Wanted to know what day Britt gets back, Rach and I were thinking di- message deleted."_

_"Hello, this is Rick Shawcross from the Sundown Lounge for Santana Lopez. Unfortunately, we have no openings for singers at the moment, but thank you for your interest in performing at the b- message deleted."_

_"San!"_ Santana grinned, tiredness lifting as Brittany’s voice filtered through the machine and filled the apartment, pushing back the shadows that lingered in her absence. _"I can't wait to bring you to London one day! They have like a giant ferris wheel in the middle of the city, it's so much fun...we went on it earlier today, you can see for miles..."_ She chuckled at the excitement in the blonde's voice, imagining her pressed up against the glass of the London Eye, eyes wide as she took in the view. She'd been exactly the same their first time up the Empire State Building. _"...and everyone here has really funny accents, like that guy who works at the diner with you. We went to see a rugby match earlier, it was brutal, like football but without all the padding. McKinley would never have won a thing if they played that instead! Oh, oh, and I had a pint at lunch! It was a really disgusting beer, but James said it was like an English tradit- end of message. To hear the message again, press 1."_

She growled in frustration. The plans she had spent various shifts obsessively perfecting for Brittany’s return could wait, the first thing she was doing when her girlfriend stepped off the plane and back into her arms was taking a hammer to her phone. It had to be the most temperamental piece of technology she had ever come across, and the amount of calls it had cut short was verging on ridiculous. It was one thing to have Brittany jumping between multiple countries and only being able to speak to her at certain times, but to have the already limited amount of times they could speak reduced even further was maddening. Sighing, the brunette deleted the message and made her way to the bedroom, no longer hungry.

Santana glanced at the clock as she undressed, clothes thrown lazily onto the chair perched in the corner of the room. It was nearly three in the morning, which meant it was nearly 8am in London. She knew the time differences between New York and every stop on the tour by heart; during one particular alcohol fuelled breakdown, mere days after Brittany had left, she had recited them all repeatedly to Quinn, who very much regretted being on Santana-duty that night. Her laptop still sat on Brittany's pillow from their goodnight/good morning chat yesterday, screen pointed towards the Latina's side of the bed so they could pretend they were lying beside each other. She slid beneath the covers, rolling onto her side to face the screen as she logged into Skype, calling her girlfriend as soon as she saw she was online.

"Hey, Britt-Britt."

"Hey, baby," grinned the blonde, rubbing the last traces of sleep from her eyes. "How was your day?"

She shrugged. "Same old, same old. Some little shit threw egg on my top at the diner and there was a folk singer with the most irritating voice at the bar...seriously, he sounded like a mix between a dying cat and a smoke alarm that's running out of power. But apart from that, y’know, nothing else to report..."

Brittany nodded, her smile dropping slightly, but she chose not to comment on the bitterness that had seeped into her girlfriend's voice at the mention of her bar shift, not when she wasn't there to comfort her. "Were you working with Alyssa tonight?" she asked. Casual acquaintances of Brittany would have been shocked by the hard edge to the blonde’s usually calm voice, and the sour expression that flashed across her face, yet she disliked Santana's co-worker even more than Alyssa disliked Santana. At times, it was more difficult to prevent Brittany from charging into her boss’ office and complaining about his daughter’s behaviour than it was to stop herself stabbing the girl with a corkscrew. Gone was the Santana Lopez of old, willing to threaten everyone and anyone with the razor blades stashed in her hair. 

"No, it was some new hire...some guy called, uh, Duncan," Santana replied, only the slightest twinge of guilt over lying as she watched the smile return to the blonde's face. "So, how was your show last night? Only a few left now, right?" she asked, as if she hadn't been crossing each date off of the giant list taped to the bedroom wall.

Brittany smirked knowingly - Santana didn't know Quinn had told her about the checklist - and nodded. "It was fantastic, as always. I don't think I'll ever get over the buzz of dancing in front of a crowd, doing what I love in front of so many..." The dancer winced, not meaning to sound like she was bragging, but Santana nodded for her to continue, a tight smile on her face. "Um, yeah, so...There's only three more shows left...we're going to Dublin tonight for the show tomorrow then two back here next week, so I'll be home next Friday!"

A week tomorrow. Santana didn't think she'd be able to maintain any semblance of calm for the next eight days, arms ready to fling themselves back round her girlfriend.  
Just as she opened her mouth to reply, another female voice cut her off on the blonde's end. She couldn't really tell what was being said, but from the frown forming on Brittany's face, it seemed she was being summoned somewhere urgently. Her heart plummeted; first a broken-off phone call, and now she didn’t even get to fully enjoy her daily chat with her girlfriend?

"I'm sorry, San," Brittany muttered, a crestfallen look painted across her face. Despite the distractions of dancing and travelling, the separation was just as hard for the blonde as it was for the brunette stuck in New York. "There's been a change to the set list for tomorrow's show, so we need to go learn some new choreography..." she explained, trailing off guiltily.

"I...it's okay, babe. You go do what you need to, I'll text you later."

"Okay...have a good sleep, San. I love you."

"Love you too, Britt. Bye..." she forced out thickly, painfully swallowing as she ended the call and slammed her laptop shut. Rolling onto her back, tears pricked in the corners of her eyes as she gazed up at the plastic stars, her thoughts still three and a half thousand miles away with Brittany.

'Just eight more days. You can do this,' Santana told herself, eventually drifting into a restless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"

Santana groaned as the shrill recording of Brittany’s voice dragged her back to consciousness and she slid a hand from beneath the covers smack the off button. Brittany had taken to making Santana personalised alarms back in high school, when her inability to function properly in the mornings earned her multiple extra laps from Sue for her tardiness. The sound of the blonde so early in the day didn’t ease her hatred of mornings - the shrill voice was just as jarring as a blaring alarm. Still, she had to reluctantly admit that it was the only effective wake-up call she had ever found. Well not the only one…

Gritting her teeth before that train of thought left her aching for Brittany, Santana wearily kicked off her covers and clambered from bed, a yawn slipping from between her lips. She hadn't slept well at all, her night plagued by dreams of being left behind by Brittany and their friends, excluded from their successful lives. And now, just to make everything seem that little bit worse, she was up unreasonably early on the one morning this week when she could have slept in after forgetting to switch off her alarm. The Latina had been covering as many shifts as possible over the past weeks to accrue more time off to spend with Brittany on the blonde’s return.

"Just fucking perfect," she muttered bitterly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she walked into the bathroom, ignoring the laptop still perched on Brittany’s pillow. She tore her clothes off and dropped them into a messy heap in the corner of the bathroom before climbing into the shower and slamming the glass door behind her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Her damp hair swept up into a messy bun, Santana walked into the kitchen and immediately moved towards the coffee machine perched on the counter. It was a little battered and scratched – “Britt, don’t shove it into the wall, you’ll dent it!” “Santana, I’m about to fuck you on the kitchen counter. Please stop thinking about your damn coffee maker.” – but in the mornings it was nothing short of her saviour. It was without a doubt her favourite of all the housewarming presents they received, handed over with a knowing look by her father after years spent watching the Latina struggle to function without caffeine.

She glanced around the kitchen as the machine whirred, frowning at the mess scattered over the counters, the plates stacked precariously next to the sink and the embarrassingly large quantity of empty bottles next to the bin. Her liver ached just to look at them and Santana couldn’t help but feel pathetic at how much she had reverted back to her high school coping methods.

(What did it say about her that she always turned to alcohol when she couldn’t have Brittany?)

Santana stacked the dishwasher between sips of coffee, disgusted at the state of some of the plates. Brittany would have been horrified. Despite being a terror in the kitchen when attempting to cook anything other than the five meals she knew off by heart, the blonde was near-obsessed with keeping the kitchen spotless. At least her early wake-up gave her the perfect opportunity to clean – she’d become less devoted to keeping things tidy in her girlfriend’s absence, but it was reaching a level that disgusted even her and she couldn’t face another cleanliness lecture from Quinn. It was her turn to host the weekly drinks night with Quinn and Rachel, a tradition she had clung to fiercely with Brittany gone, and she knew that one look at the kitchen in its current state would send her best friend into overdrive.

Some couples begin to dress like each other when they’ve been together but Santana would swear that Quinn’s absorbed Rachel’s ability to give a lecture without taking a breath instead.

And, God, even worse than a lecture from Quinn would be the pitying looks from Rachel. That sealed it; the kitchen would be spotless by this evening. She finished what promised to be the first of many cups of coffee that morning before pulling on one of Brittany’s jumpers to take out the rubbish. She took a grim satisfaction in forcing the bags down the chute, working out her residual frustration over the previous night’s ruined Skype call.

Kicking the front door shut behind her, Santana fetched her laptop and the post she'd collected last night before returning to the kitchen. Perched on a kitchen stool, she poured herself another cup of coffee, filling the mug slightly more at the sight of several thick bills. Santana had never realised, before living on her own, how much of her adult life would be spent giving other people her money. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing she was back in high school as she sorted the bills into two piles, those that needed paying immediately and those that could wait.

Several envelopes were addressed to Brittany, invitations to important parties judging by their fancy designs - presumably the dancer's name was once again being included in guest lists now she was due back in the country. Though Santana knew she would be Brittany's plus one to each event, she couldn't stop her rush of jealousy as she set the envelopes aside. She was annoyed that Brittany had neglected to mention them. The postal invitations were merely a chance for the hosts to show off about how much money they were ploughing into their parties - guests knew they were invited weeks in advance. Brittany keeping things from her because she feared Santana’s reaction hurt more than being pitied by the former Glee club members, while it also wracked her with guilt over every stab of envy she had ever felt.

She sighed heavily and her focus drifted from the post to her laptop as she began to open her emails. She had hoped Brittany would have sent her a short message, but it seemed the blonde hadn’t found the time as her inbox opened with the usual mix of spam, email subscriptions, and messages from her friends. There was another message from Puck asking to spend a few nights in their apartment – ‘No, not after I woke up to you fucking some redhead on my couch the last time we let you stay. You still owe me the money for getting it cleaned, by the way.’ – and two emails from Quinn filled with links to articles she thought Santana would find interesting; . A message from Rachel about her latest animal welfare campaign was swiftly deleted. Santana had learnt the hard way to ignore all emails from Rachel about her charitable work after she was somehow bullied into spending an entire day handing out leaflets in Central Park last year.

In the middle of summer. In 90 degree heat. Dressed as a fucking whale.

Rachel had bought her drinks for an entire month to apologise.

Stretching her arms above her head, Santana cracked her back as she scanned the rest of her emails. An email from Mercedes, nestled between two Viagra promotions, with the subject line ‘New song!!!’ caught her eye.

‘ _Hey, Satan. How are things in NY? And when is that dancer of yours back in the country?! I've attached a new song I recorded this week. You know the drill, I won't approve it until I hear what you think... Where would I be without your brutally honest critique? Much love, W x_ ’

Santana chuckled, still amused that she signed off her emails as Wheezy. She appreciated every time Mercedes involved her in her career and was touched by how much she valued her opinions. It had led to quite the argument between Mercedes and her record label during the release of her first album – the singer had playfully wanted to put a dedication to Satan, thanking her for all her help, but her management hadn’t felt that it was the best image to her fan base and Mercedes had eventually backed down. (‘Next album, Santana, I swear.’)

She was lucky to have a friend like Mercedes. She knew how tirelessly the other woman worked to try and help her break into the music business and she was beyond grateful. Brittany had let slip that Mercedes show her label videos of Santana performing as often as she could, but despite the crazy success of her debut record, she didn’t have enough clout to really make anything happen for Santana just yet.

Turning up the volume on her laptop, Santana opened the song file, a frown flickering over her face after the first few seconds. This was much more mechanical-sounding than what she was expecting, more akin to the dubstep craze of their senior year than Mercedes' usual style... and, was that the sound of water in the background? Mercedes must have sent the wrong file, or her computer hadn’t loaded it properly. Santana closed her music player to reload the file, but her frown deepened when the sound didn’t disappear and her eyes flicked around the kitchen in search of the source.

"Fucking fuck!" she shouted, her eyes widening in panic at the flood of water spreading from the dishwasher. She stumbled to the machine on shaky legs, cursing under her breath as she stabbed at the ‘off’ button, before she hurried to her bedroom to grab some dirty towels to soak up the mess.

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes once she had lain them down and a lump formed in her throat. Her hands flew to her mouth just as the first sob escaped and her shoulders shook as her tears began to fall. What was this? She shouldn't be dealing with broken dishwashers while her friends enjoyed their success. She shouldn't have to debate who to call first, the repairman or the job she so desperately needed to keep to tell them she would be late. She shouldn't need to worry about what Brittany was doing right now, whether she would be free to transfer some money into their joint account just so Santana could pay to have the stupid machine fixed... What the fuck had happened to her life?

 

* * *

 

 

"It's open!" Santana called in response to the knocking on her front door, nodding in greeting as Quinn and Rachel walked inside before she continued to slice limes in the kitchen. The hosts always decided the drinks and she had a rather nice bottle of tequila (an end of the month gift from her boss at the bar) just waiting to be opened.

Tossing their coats onto the dining table, the two made their way into the kitchen. Rachel dropped a grocery bag filled with snacks on the counter while Quinn searched the cupboards for bowls.

"Shit, S, what happened? Did someone with OCD break in?" she asked teasingly, emptying several packs of crisps into the bowls. "I've not seen the kitchen so clean in months..."

"Rachel," Santana said, feigning an air of boredom as she threw a lime a Quinn, "kindly tell your girlfriend that if she says one more word about my kitchen, I'll sneak whiskey into all her drinks tonight. We all know how well that ends." Rachel rolled her eyes, but the smile playing over her lips betrayed her amusement. Though she'd initially been shocked by how harsh Quinn and Santana seemed to be with each other, she'd soon learnt that bickering and light-hearted teasing were simply part of how they interacted. Her respect for Brittany had grown tenfold after seeing the two together and learning to tell when they were actually angry with each other – Brittany had to deal with Quinn and Santana when they had truly been at each other’s throats and she would never understand how the dancer coped during their vicious and spiteful high school years.

"Now now, Santana, you know better than to involve me in your childish squabbling. Honestly, it's like Brittany and I are your mothers, not your girlfriends," she scolded playfully, carrying the tequila and glasses through to the living room at the Latina's silent request. "And you know I should be saving my voice, what with opening night coming in little over a week, not straining it to make myself heard over you two."

Santana rolled her eyes into the fridge at the latest mention of Rachel's new show. She understood the Jewish girl was excited ("You only debut on Broadway once, Santana.") and she was secretly proud of her, but the constant reminders were both tiring and jealousy-inducing. Santana must have heard about the show at least twice a day for the past six weeks. She could only assume it was a near-constant topic of conversation in the Fabray-Berry household, though she knew Quinn was way too whipped to say anything.

(Not that she was in any position to gloat. One pout from Brittany had had her standing in the rain for six hours to buy tickets for Britney Spears's latest comeback tour.)

(Neither Santana nor Quinn knew that their girlfriends had begun a secret competition over what they could get their girlfriends to do. The Britney tickets had put the dancer in the lead.)

"Alright then, bitches," Santana said, setting the ingredients for margaritas and a cocktail shaker on the coffee table before she flopped onto the sofa. She quickly poured out a shot of tequila for Quinn and Rachel before raising her own. "I had to pay a ridiculous amount of money to have my dishwasher fixed by an incompetent pervert today, as well as deal with two would-be shoplifters today, and I haven't held my girlfriend in four months. Here’s to being irresponsible adults and getting fucking wasted on a weeknight!"

 

* * *

 

 

Their glasses long abandoned, Santana took a long swig from the nearly empty bottle before passing it over to Quinn, sprawled messily over the other half of the sofa. She lazily flicked through numerous TV channels, unable to settle on a programme for more than a few minutes before changing it. Quinn nudged her when she landed on a fashion show, silently asking her not to change the channel again. Drunkenly judging other people’s clothes had long been a favourite past time for the two of them – even at their worst in high school, Brittany had still been able to get them into the same room with the promise of alcohol and America’s Next Top Model.

Slumped on the other sofa, Rachel was silent until the programme began to review red carpet outfits from a recent music awards show. “That reminds me, Santana,” she said, her diction irritatingly perfect despite the large amount of alcohol Santana had all but forced her to drink. “Have you decided what you’re going to wear to opening night? After all, it’s important we all look our best, given that we will almost definitely be caught in a photo together after the show. I’m told the press love to document Broadway stars’ social lives almost as closely as they do their performance, and I know you would hate to be photographed unless you looked perfect.”

"Shut up, Berry," Santana replied tersely, her patience waning with the short diva. Rachel had brought nearly every conversation back to her impending Broadway debut and she could feel her self-control slipping with every mention of the show. It was only a deep sense of gratitude towards Rachel and Quinn for their support over the past few months that had held her tongue thus far but she felt ready to burst with an infuriated jealousy and didn’t know for how much longer she would be able to hold it in.

"I was also wondering where you would like me to leave your tickets..."

"Rachel," Quinn cut in warningly, taking notice of the deepening scowl on Santana’s face.

"...at the theatre, or would you prefer if I brought them here? I know you have quite a busy work schedule..." Santana clenched her fists, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "...so it would probably be easier if I brought them here. Plus, I'd hate for there to be a mix up at the box office and for you and Brittany to not receive your tickets. I don't know if you realise, but it's going to be very popular, so there will most likely be a lot of confusion in the office..."

"I said shut the fuck up, Berry!" Santana spat, fists still tightly clenched as she glared at the other brunette. Quinn sat silently as her gaze flickered between the two of them, looking as if she was unsure who she needed to drag from the room. "Are you fucking incapable of talking about something that isn't your goddamn show, or are you really still that self-involved? Yes, I know how fucking popular your show is going to be because you never fucking talk about anything else!"

Quinn reached over to lay a hand on Santana’s shoulder, hoping to calm her down, but she shrugged the touch off as she pushed herself up off the sofa. The dam holding back her emotions had finally been broken and she let them pour out while pacing back and forth in front of a wide-eyed Rachel.

"Christ, I'm happy for you, but do you ever stop to fucking think that it might be hard for me to hear about your 'unparalleled' success? No, you don't, because if you did, you wouldn't fucking go on about it all the time. You wouldn't forward me every single damn article about it or send links to every interview you do! My inbox is full with shit from you about your play...articles from Quinn by her fancy journo friends...recordings of Mercedes' latest songs...invitations to film festivals to watch screenings of Artie's film or videos of Mike's latest performances. And maybe, if I’m really fucking lucky, there’s a message from my girlfriend about whatever amazing place she happens to be in! None of you fucking stop to think of how much of a failure you all make me feel."

Hot tears slipped down her cheeks but Santana made no move to brush them away as she glanced between her friends. Rachel seemed shell-shocked, frozen in place on the sofa. Quinn had stood but she seemed wary of approaching Santana, hazel eyes darting between the Latina’s anguished face and her clenched fists.

"S, you're not a..."

"Don't finish that sentence, Q," she interrupted bitterly, her gaze shifting to a photo of herself and Brittany on the wall. "We promised each other no more lies, so don’t you dare finish that sentence. We all know I'm a failure. I work three shitty jobs that I hate and spend most of my kissing the asses of rude customers, just so one of them doesn’t complain and get me fired. Poor old Santana Lopez, hey, can't get a singing gig anywhere so she spends her time clinging to the coat tails of her talented, successful friends and girlfriend." She sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping in defeat at the thought of Brittany and how much she would hate to see Santana like this. Her voice was hollow when she spoke again. “I didn’t mind, you know? I wanted B to succeed, to chase her dreams. I didn’t mind working crappy jobs to support us while she worked towards that. That’s what you do when you love someone, isn’t it? I didn’t mind waiting for my turn. I’m so happy for her, and for all of you guys for succeeding, but I look at all of you and I just… I just want to know when it’s my turn to be happy.”

Shaking her head, Santana turned and left the room, hurrying towards the safety of her bedroom as she felt a fresh onslaught of tears threatening to spill over. She locked the door behind her before sliding down it, pressing her face to her knees as she gave in to the urge to sob in the hope that it would stifle the sound.

Quinn sighed and dragged a hand through her hair as Santana walked away. She threw her phone to Rachel with a mumbled request to call them a taxi before she set about tidying the living room. It was least she could do for Santana after the other woman had cracked and let them see how she really felt. She wasn’t sure whether she should tell Brittany about Santana’s meltdown or leave the Latina to do it herself. Knowing Santana, she would push everything down and pretend that it was all fine – ‘Birds of a feather’ Quinn thought bitterly, knowing she would act exactly the same way were she in that situation – but if the situation was reversed she knew Santana would be furious if she hadn’t told her about Brittany being upset.

"The taxi will be here in five minutes," Rachel murmured as Quinn shut the fridge, ultimately deciding that she would tell Brittany but only when the dancer had returned. Nodding, she sighed at the tears glistening in Rachel’s eyes and she crossed over to press a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"It's not your fault, baby. Tonight was just the breaking point, I guess. Who knows how long she’s been trying to repress all that," she said gently, brushing back Rachel's hair. At Rachel’s nod, she kissed her forehead again before heading to Santana’s bedroom, knocking softly on the door to alert the Latina to her presence.

"Santana," she called out, wincing as the muffled sound of a sob travelled through the door. "I love you like you’re my sister, but I'm a bitch and I've known you since we were thirteen so you know I'll always tell you the truth... You are not a failure, not at all, and I'll keep saying it until you believe me. You didn't let me think it in high school, so I'm not gonna let you now."

Santana choked on her tears, the lump in her throat growing with her best friend's words. She made no attempt to reply but she knew Quinn didn’t expect her to, that all she needed Santana to do was listen. She sat in silence as she heard Quinn and Rachel gathering themselves, the sound of the front door closing letting her know she was alone again.

Brushing away the worst of her tears, Santana pushed herself up and stumbled over to the bed. She felt numb as she stripped off her clothes and slid beneath her covers, pulling them over her head as if she could cocoon herself away from the world and block out the memory of the disastrous end to the night. She distantly remembered that Brittany would be waiting by her laptop for their daily call but, for the first time in four months, Santana wanted nothing more than to avoid talking to her girlfriend.

 

* * *

 

The insistent ringing of her doorbell echoed through the quiet apartment, drawing Santana’s attention away from the message she was writing to Brittany. They had been trading texts all day since Santana had sent her an apology for missing their call on her way to work that morning. Clambering up from the sofa, she walked over the intercom by her door and stabbed the answer button viciously.

"Who is it?" she asked tetchily. Her foul mood had lost her multiple tips that morning at the diner and in turn had only made her even more annoyed.

"It's, uh, it's me. Rachel," came the crackly reply, making Santana scowl.

"If you've come to give me the tickets for your show, Berry, you can fuck off."

"No, I've not...I'm not here for that, I just...please, can you just let me up?"

She debated telling Rachel to fuck off or, better yet, just leaving her in the cold to figure that out for herself. Still, if Rachel had made the journey over to apologise, she could at least try to hear her out. One of the endless tragedies of maturing after high school was that she actually had to be polite to the people in her life.

She buzzed the main door open for Rachel and finished her text to Brittany as she waited for the shorter brunette to reach her floor. At the timid knock, Santana pulled open the front door and silently stepped aside to let Rachel into the apartment.

"So..." she began slowly after Rachel, perched cautiously in the edge of the sofa, made no move to speak. She only had a few hours until her next shift and wanted to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible.

"Oh, right. I, uh, I just came to say two things, Santana. Firstly, I wanted to apologise. You were right,” Rachel admitted guiltily. “It's been incredibly self-centred of me to keep on about my show. I was only doing it because I'm excited but looking back I can see how it seemed like I was showing off. I never meant to make you feel inferior in any way, you have to know that. I don't think you're a failure. In fact, and I really hope you don’t think I’m being patronising, my respect and admiration for you has only grown over the past few years. You put Brittany first, despite your dreams, and that was incredibly selfless of you. I’m honestly not sure I would have been able to do the same thing. "

Santana nodded, forcing a tight smile. She had known last night that Rachel hadn’t deliberately been trying to upset her, but with her inhibitions lowered by too much tequila she had been unable to stop herself from exploding. "And the second thing?"

At Santana’s prompting, Rachel pulled a sheet of paper from her bag and set it down on the coffee table.

“Remember senior year and how much fun West Side Story was?" she asked, relief flickering over her face as Santana nodded again. "Well, the director from my first ever off-Broadway show, Gregory Matheron, is doing a West Side revival of sorts. It’s an interesting premise, he’s using all of the original music, but adapting the story and the script to a more modern setting. He said it’s partly a comment on the fact that racial tensions are still a very real problem in modern America and partly to bring in a new generation of West Side Story finds by making it more relevant to them. They were initially going to do it as an independent movie but their investors preferred that they go down the theatre route instead.”

“Sounds interesting, but I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”

“Well, I bumped into him the other day at a party thrown by a mutual acquaintance and he told me they’re currently auditioning for the final few roles. Apparently they’re having a lot of trouble finding the perfect Anita. I… well, I told him that I might know someone who was interested and he had his assistant send me all the audition details the next day,” she explained, pointing at the sheet of paper.

"What are you trying to say?" Santana asked slowly.

"I'm saying, Santana, you should audition. You were an outstanding Anita and George is well-known for casting completely unknown actors in his projects. I know musical theatre was never your dream, Santana, but… I think you should at least try? Who knows what might happen, it might open just the door you’ve been searching for.”

Santana nodded dumbly, her eyes darting between the paper and Rachel. It seemed promising, more promising than anything she had found in longer than she cared to remember, but her heart sank as she realised she wouldn’t be able to audition. "I...I can't, Rae, I have work..."

"They’re holding another casting call on Monday afternoon and I know you don't work then. I told him that you may turn up, but it's up to you, I'm not going to pressure you into anything. Just...promise me you'll think about it?" Rachel asked, drawing her coat around her as she stood to leave.

Santana was in shock, the possibilities offered by that scrap of paper racing through her mind. Yes, there was every chance nothing would come of it, but if Rachel thought she was good enough...

"Thank you," Santana muttered softly. Swallowing thickly around the lump in her throat, she drew Rachel into a tight hug. “I mean it, Rae, thank you for thinking of me. I feel like even more of an ass for last night now.”

"Don't thank me, Santana. Just think about it." Rachel smiled and walked to the front door, glancing briefly back at Santana before she left. She closed the door quietly behind her, leaving the Latina to stare at the piece of paper and wonder if maybe, just maybe, it was her turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all reviews are more than welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

‘This is worse than the whale suit.’

If Santana had felt uncomfortable dressed like a marine animal in the sweltering heat of a New York summer’s day, it was nothing compared to how she felt in the narrow hallway that served as the audition waiting area. Her jaw clenched as she fought the urge to fidget beneath the burn of the inquisitive stares sent her way. She understood the curiosity, vaguely recalling Rachel mentioning that after her first few auditions she began to recognise some of the actresses with whom she was competing for parts. To Santana, it felt like she had unwittingly stumbled into a secret society, reserved only for a select few. The calm radiating off the crowd of bodies shoved into the small space showed how common a routine this was for them; even if they were nervous, she would never have been able to guess.

Santana, on the other hand, was instead trying desperately not to look like a gazelle that had stumbled into a pack of lions.

She curled her toes inside her shoes, a technique she had develop during cheer competitions to stop herself from nervously bouncing up and down, and stared blankly at the door at the end of the hallway. The wait to be called in to audition was awful – only telling Brittany she loved her in the hallway at McKinley and coming out to her grandparents beat it in terms of sheer nausea-inducing terror. A small part of her had hoped, pressed between an overly sweaty man and a couple she was sure were discreetly having sex on the bus to the studio, that she would be called in first. She would be able to get it over with as quickly as possible, prepare for her bar shift that night, and forget that she had ever thought auditioning would be a good idea.

Santana had been surprisingly confident when she left the apartment that morning, despite how long it had been since she sung (sober) in front of anyone but Brittany, but Rachel’s encouragement and a surprise ‘good luck’ call from her girlfriend had put her in enough of a good mood that she had whistled on her way to the bus stop. Whistled, like she was some ridiculous character from an after-school special. That confidence had slipped away, however, as she counted down the stops until she reached the studio. The large crowd already waiting in the narrow hallway had destroyed any last lingering remnants of self-belief, the realisation that she was going up against women who probably filled ensembles up and down Broadway doing little to help her prepare.

Still, she would rather work a week of back-to-back shifts with Alyssa than show any signs of weakness and the whispers she could hear questioning who she was and what did she think she was doing there merely stiffened her resolve. If the last nine years had taught her anything, it was that she was great at feigning confidence when she needed to. Fake it till you make it had become her personal motto.

The assistant appeared through the doorway but Santana sighed in frustration as yet another waif-like brunette was called in ahead of her. She had already been waiting for close to two hours – Rachel would definitely be paying for her drinks the next time they went out for neglecting to mention just how popular the auditions would be. Her fingers itched to reach into her bag and retrieve her pack of cigarettes, but it would be just her luck to step outside for a smoke and miss her name being called. She could guarantee that nobody would bother to fetch her.

Santana briefly wondered if Brittany’s dance auditions had been the same as this, before she had choreographers across the country clamouring to work with her. She wondered if she’d stiffened, simultaneously praying to melt into the wall behind her and schooling her features into a calculated look of indifference as eyes roved over her, sizing up the competition. Had all her friends felt the same as they first set out on their careers or had they still retained enough of their high school naivety that the judgmental gazes did little to damage their confidence?

The assistant reappeared fifteen minutes later, the elfin brunette having hurried from the room a few minutes before. Maybe she was simply looking for signs of her old life to comfort her in the chaos of her new one, but Santana couldn’t help but think that the assistant looked a lot like Holly Holiday. It would be just like Holly to somehow worm her way into working for the director of this musical, Santana thought with a grin. She did have a knack for being around exactly when the Latina needed her.

Santana was so caught up in the comparison that she didn’t hear her name the first time it was called. It was only as she caught sight of the woman’s lips moving that she tuned back in, jerkily stepping forward and nodding.

“That’s me,” she said, glad that her voice held steady and betrayed no hint of her nerves. She grabbed her bag from the floor and picked her way through the bodies littering the corridor before following the assistant into the audition room. Brittany’s words repeated in her head like a mantra, keeping her head held high as she came to a stop in front of the audition panel.

She could do this.

She could do this.

She could do this.

 

* * *

 

 

Santana blew out a breath of smoke as she dropped her cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it beneath the heel of her shoe as the bus home pulled up. Climbing on, she dropped into an empty seat by the window and slipped her phone from her pocket, fingers tapping out a brief message.

‘ _Nobody told me musical actresses are crazy enough to try and sabotage each other. Guess I should have known after Berry and the crackhouse… Anyway, don’t think it went awfully, but doubt anything will come of it x_ ’

Smirking at the memory of the full scale argument happening in the hallway when she had left the audition room – from what she gathered as she made her way out, someone had apparently stolen someone else’s lucky bottle – she sent the message to Brittany, Quinn, and Rachel. She slipped her phone back into her pocket before settling back into her seat and gazing absently out of the window, determined to stop herself from analysing the reactions of everyone who had been in the room for her audition.

Barely a minute had passed before the opening notes of ‘Songbird’, Brittany’s personalised ringtone since senior year, blared from her phone and a smile snuck over her face as she answered.

“Hey, baby,” Santana said softly, grinning as she spoke. She was aware that she probably looked like a fool, but in that moment she didn’t care. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready to go on?”

There was silence for a few seconds and Santana’s heart plummeted, fearing that Brittany hadn’t surprised her with a call but had sat on her phone or dropped it, before the blonde’s voice burst through the speakers.

“San, you just had your first Broadway audition! Do you really think I have anything better to do than call you?”

“It wasn’t Broadway, Bri-…”

“Yeah, I know it wasn’t Broadway, but it sounds cooler to tell people my girlfriend might be in a Broadway show. Schematics,” Brittany interrupted, determined to find out how the audition had gone.

“Semantics, babe,” Santana corrected with a small chuckle. “And let’s not get ahead of ourselves. They’ve still got at least another twenty people to audition. They probably won’t even remember me by the end of the day.”

“I’m ignoring that and staying positive. So… how did it go?”

“Um, yeah, I don’t think it went too badly,” she said, fiddling with the hem of her jacket, “but, I mean, you can never tell with these things, can you? Plus everybody there was a fancy musical type, so they’ve got a lot of more talented people to choose from. Like I said, I doubt anything will come of it. Still, it was nice of Rachel to set it up for me.”

“C’mon, San, don’t be like that. I bet you were fantastic,” Brittany replied. Warmth flooded through Santana at her girlfriend’s encouraging tone. “Why don’t you ask Rachel to speak to him, see if you can get any hints about what they thought?”

Santana shook her head, momentarily forgetting that Brittany couldn’t see her. “No, I don’t want them to think I’m trying to play favourites.”

“That’s fair, I suppose. When will you find out?” Brittany asked, raising her voice over the background din of people rushing around the prepare for that night’s show.

“He said they’d let us know as soon as possible, but God knows what that means.” Santana bit her lip, able to hear the faint sound of someone calling for Brittany’s attention, but her usual bitterness at having their call cut short was lacking.

“Hang on a second, S,” Brittany mumbled, moving the phone away so she could talk to whoever was calling for her. “They want me to do a quick interview for a dance magazine… do you mind if I go?”

“No, babe, it’s fine. It’s not your fault everyone wants a piece of you, you’re just too amazing. Good luck with the show tonight. Love you.”

“Love you too, S. Have a good shift tonight,” the blonde replied before blowing a kiss into the phone and hanging up. Santana slipped her phone into her pocket with a smile, just in time to jump off the bus at her stop and run into the foyer of her apartment block as the first drops of rain spattered against the street.

 

* * *

 

Shaking the excess rain off her umbrella with a scowl, Santana made her way through the bar to the store room, shedding her wet coat as quickly as possible as she bounced on her feet to get warm. The heavy rain had delayed all the buses and all the taxis she saw had been full, leaving her to walk to bar in order make it in time for her shift. She had arrived, with time to spare, but was frozen after her journey.

“You’d think after four years here, you’d be used to the damn cold, Lopez.”

Santana jumped as the teasing male voice broke through her internal monologue cursing the New York weather and she turned to see light spilling from the open door of the bar’s office. Rolling her eyes, she hung up her jacket to dry before navigating her way through the stacks of boxes to lean in the doorway.

“Good evening to you too, Rich,” she laughed, grinning at the bar owner sitting in his cracked leather chair. She adored Rich and had done from the moment he hired her a few months shy of her 21st birthday – he’d become something of a second father figure out in New York, something she welcomed when her own was so far away. Santana had a lot of respect for Rich, appreciating her talent for dry remarks that could lighten up the most boring of shifts, and she struggled to understand how someone like Alyssa could be his daughter. After particularly difficult shifts with her lazy co-worker, Santana often felt like asking her boss if had ever thought to take a paternity test, but she wasn’t sure the question would go down to well.

“Just you and me tonight, kiddo. Think you can keep up?” he asked, closing the file her had been looking through and sliding it back into one of the desk drawers.

“With you, old man?” Santana smirked. She feigned indifference as she glanced at her nails. “I won’t even break a sweat.” Rich just grinned, waving off Santana’s teasing as he rolled her eyes. “I wanted to ask you something actually… has anyone dropped out of Thursday?”

After her first year working at the bar, Rich had promised that if anybody dropped out of the performing at music night less than three days in advance, he would let the Latina sing. Unfortunately for her, she had yet to perform at the bar, but Santana couldn’t help but ask every week. Only once had Rich been able to offer her the opportunity to sing, only for it to be snatched away the following day by a burst water pipe that flooded the bar and shut them down for four days.

She really did have all the luck.

Rich sighed, his gaze dropping to his desk as he once again searched for the easiest way to let Santana down. “Afraid not, Lopez. But, you know, maybe next week…” he trailed off with a weak smile, the same as he did every week.

“Yeah, maybe,” she echoed hollowly.

“But, I do have a free shift on Friday with your name on it, if you want it?”

Santana shook her head, her mood lifting at the thought of Brittany’s impending return. “No can do, boss. Britt’s back on Friday.”

“It’s about time that girl stopped globetrotting and came home!” The grin stretched across Rich’s face almost rivalled Santana’s. “Well, obviously you won’t be here. Too busy doing other things, I imagine,” he said, winking at Santana’s blush. “But make sure to bring her down to say whenever you guys have a free moment. She still owes me a dance contest.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rich,” she mumbled even as the heat of her cheeks gave her away. “But, yeah, will do. Even if she is going to let you win cos you’re my boss.”

Rich laughed, shaking his head as he pushed himself up from his seat. “Let’s face it, I need all the help I can get. Now, c’mon, we’re opening in half an hour. We should probably be responsible and restock the bar before that happens…”

Santana nodded and followed him back into the storeroom, amused at the image of gangly, uncoordinated Rich trying to take on Brittany in a dance off. She knew there was a reason she loved working Mondays.

 

* * *

 

Santana glanced at the clock as she waited directly outside the door from baggage reclaim, her hands tightly gripping a piece of white card of white card bearing the words ‘My Songbird’. She knew it was absurdly cheesy, and she had smacked Quinn in the head with a pillow when the blonde had pointed it out that morning, but she knew Brittany would appreciate the gesture. Quinn and Rachel had spent the morning helping her tidy the apartment for Brittany’s return. Well, they had thought they were there to help – in reality, the couple had done all the work, hanging banners and tidying up, as Santana bounced excitedly on the sofa, a goofy smile in place as she counted down the hours until Brittany’s arrival.

She glanced at the arrivals board, unable to stop herself from checking it every thirty seconds to see if Brittany’s flight had arrived or if it had been delayed. As much as she loved the blonde, she didn’t want to spend three hours waiting in front of baggage reclaim just because Brittany had forgotten to tell her that her flight had been delayed.

Santana’s head shot up as the first people streamed out of the doors a mix of weary businessmen, young travellers, and families. She held her sign up to her chest and smiled warmly as she searched the crowd for a hint of the tall blonde. Knowing Brittany, she’d probably have to wait until all the bags had been removed from the carousel. Her girlfriend was too damn helpful for her own good sometimes and she insisted on staying every time to make sure that everybody had got their luggage. Santana wouldn’t have cared if everybody but them had lost their entire luggage, as long as theirs was delivered properly, but she was never able to deny Brittany’s request.

“Santana!”

Her head spun in the direction of the sound, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes and her sile growing as she finally caught sight of Brittany. She watched as Brittany turned one of her fellow dancers, asking them to hold her case briefly, before she sprinted towards Santana, throwing apologies over her shoulder at everyone she bumped into. Santana let herself be gathered into Brittany’s arms as soon as the blonde reached her, wrapping her own around her girlfriend’s neck, and laughed freely as she was twirled around in the air.

It was several long moments before Brittany set Santana back on the ground, neither woman wanting to let go of the other. Santana had wrapped her legs around Brittany’s waist as she clung to her but she eventually dropped them to stand, albeit a little shakily. Having Brittany back in her arms was a little overwhelming after so long apart. She gazed adoringly up at the blonde and slid her hand up to cup Brittany’s cheek, stroking her thumb softly over her skin before she guided Brittany’s head down for a kiss. Months of loneliness and distance evaporated as their lips met, warmth and love and happiness blossoming in their place.

Santana whimpered softly as Brittany drew back and she kept her arms locked around the blonde’s shoulders. She’d been away for far too long and Santana didn’t want to let her out of arm’s reach until she absolutely had to. Smiling, Brittany pressed her forehead to Santana’s as her friend deposited her case next to them. The rest of the dancers murmured soft goodbyes before wandering off to meet their own loved ones, none of them wanting to ruin the moment for the pair. They all knew how much seeing Santana again meant to Brittany and, though many of them had never met Santana before, they could tell it meant just as much to her.

Brown eyes locked onto blue as Santana traced her fingers down Brittany’s neck, over her shoulders and down her arms before linking their hands.

“God, I’ve missed you,” she whispered, smiling at the flush that broke out over Brittany’s cheeks at her admission.

“I’ve missed you too, baby. I love you so, so much and it is so good to see you. I just… how are you? Are you okay?”

Santana bit her lip. She wasn’t singing for a living. She had to deal with the entire colourful spectrum of rude customers every day of the week. She couldn’t really afford to shower Brittany with presents like she wanted to, even if her girlfriend was always thrilled by the simplest of romantic gestures. She only had a faint hope that things would have any chance of changing soon… but she had Brittany. She had her girlfriend back in her arms, the love of her life who she knew would support her no matter what.

“Yeah, Britt. I really am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all reviews will be met with love and the hope that you find some money on the floor today.


End file.
